


Mix Until Fluffy

by gallifreyburning



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:28:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose is an employee in the bakery at Henrik's, and Ten is a specialty cake maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mix Until Fluffy

 

The food hall in the basement of Henrik’s department store isn’t the most exciting place to work, but it is certainly busy.  An entire floor full of gourmet groceries, fresh fruit and marzipan and chocolate-covered crickets, deli meat and lychee-flavored sodas, all arranged as artfully as the denizens of London could ever want.

It’s far more chaotic than the other floors, and the clerks don’t get commission, not like in the women’s department upstairs. Rose has been stranded as the salesgirl at the bakery counter for a month now, on her feet the entire day, filling orders for a stream of posh customers who complain if their croissant is too flaky, or not flaky enough, or sometimes both at the same time.

All that, and there’s stock boy named Mickey who asks Rose to come round to the pub after practically every shift, to watch a match and get a pint. She’d said yes a few days ago, and has been trying to figure out how to say no when he asks again.

The only perk is getting to take home a share of the leftover pastries and cakes at closing. Rose’s mum has commented more than once about the fact that Rose’s bum’s  _definitely_ gotten bigger, regardless of the fact that Jackie’s the one who eats practically everything she brings home.

It’s Christmas, which means more than just the usual scones and crullers and bagels and crumpets; it means specialty cakes brought in by bakers eager to land a permanent contract with Henrik’s. Last week was Magpie’s Bakery, with their fancy lorry in the loading bay and a giant cake in the shape of Queen Elizabeth on display in center of the bakery area.

This week, there’s no fancy lorry; there’s just a skinny bloke in a battered blue van and a pinstriped suit. An hour before Henrik’s opens, while Rose is cleaning the espresso machine, he bounces right up to the baked goods counter, wild thatch of chestnut hair bobbing right along with him.

“Where should I set up?” he asks, nodding at the box full of fondant-covered petit-fours in his arms.

Rose points at the large round table off to the side. “You got Prince Charles in that little box? Doesn’t look half the size of the cake we had in last week.”

The grin he flashes at her makes Rose’s stomach do a little flip.

“Nothing as boring as a prince in this box,” he replies, brimming with complete self-confidence. With a cheeky wink, he turns and gets to work.

Rose keeps an eye on him as he bustles around the table, unpacking a big rectangular cake and a strange circular metal structure, not to mention the box full of fondant-covered petit-fours.

“Oi, Tyler!”

Rose flinches, whirling around to find her manager hovering in the door to the back, a frown on his face.

“Quit ogling the delivery man and get back to inventorying! We open in less than twenty minutes!”

Face burning hot, Rose pretends not to notice as said delivery man shoots a pointed look her direction. Instead she slides open the nearest bakery case and crouches down, eyes locking onto the tray of muffins in front of her. She keeps them fixed there, too, until there’s a  _tap tap_ on the glass.

The delivery man’s crouched on the other side of the bakery case, just at her eye level, with a grin on his face.

“Run for your life,” he mouths, nodding to his left. She looks, realizes her manager is standing in the door, still watching her. But from this angle, he can’t see the bloke in the pinstriped suit.

What sort of delivery man wears a suit, anyway?

Rose can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face – can’t stop the way her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth, either. He notices, too, his gaze going fuzzy as he fixates on that little bit of pink for a second.

Making a shooing gesture, Rose mouths, “Go away!”

He shakes his head, uses his fingers to make a gesture that leaves Rose gaping at him. He’s pointing and poking and …  _is he propositioning her through the bakery case?_

He’s mouthing something, too, but she’s so focused on his fingers, long and slender and engaged in such an obscene gesture, that she doesn’t notice. After a moment of failing to get his point across, Rose gaping at him like a fish, he finally says in a voice that’s far too loud, “Toothpicks!”

Rose pops up so fast, she nearly cracks her head on the top of the bakery case. The delivery man rises to his feet, too.

“How on earth does  _this” –_  Rose glances around to make her manager’s gone from the door, then mimics his gesture – “mean  _toothpicks?”_

“I dunno,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck and shrugging, beginning to look self-conscious. “Pointy, poky? Y’know, for sticking in places? I only need half a dozen of them. The toothpicks.”

All of this ridiculousness warrants a frown, but Rose can’t muster one to save her life. She snickers instead, reaching over to grab a handful of toothpicks and shoving them at him. “Get out of here, before you get me in trouble.”

“Ohh, trouble. I like the sound of that,” he replies merrily, rocking back on his heels before he walks off to finish his job.

Ten minutes later, the soft sound of machinery starts up from his general direction. Overcome with curiosity, Rose pops her head up, staring across the gleaming glass of the bakery counter.

On the display table, he’s built a perfect replica of the Eye.

At the bottom of the ferris wheel is a large rectangular cake frosted to look like concrete, surrounded by little sugar-spun people waiting in line. The metal has been constructed into support struts and two large hoops; between the hoops, all of the little oblong petit-fours have been expertly suspended. They’re perfect replicas of the cars, windows painted with food coloring, complete with little faces looking out. The wheel is slowly turning, the petit-fours full of passengers riding around and around.

It’s a spectacular sight. Light years better than the Queen last week.

The delivery man turns around, beaming. “What do you think?”

“Who made that? Who do you work for?” 

“Bit of a freelancer,” he replies, edging closer to the bakery counter — closer to Rose. “Don’t work for anyone, really.”

“You …  _you_  made that?” She points at it, behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. “You own a bakery?”

“Nahh. My flat’s a few blocks that way,” he says, nodding vaguely, and she has no idea what direction he could possibly mean. “The oven’s old, and sometimes she’s fifty degrees or so hotter than she reads, but she’s reliable enough.”

The fact that this delivery man isn’t just a delivery man, that he spent hours in his flat crafting this magnificent piece of moving confectionary architecture – Rose is so astonished she can’t take her eyes off of it.

Which is a good thing, as it happens; the left support strut begins to slip – minute, at first, but more noticeable as the entire hoop structure shudders, mid-rotation. Rose makes a strangled noise of panic, somehow manages to shout, “Look out!”

She’s moving at the same time, dashing out from behind the bakery counter so fast she knocks a tray of croissants across the floor. The impact leaves a haze of butter-crusted flakes in the air behind her, but she isn’t thinking about the croissants or how furious her manager will be or anything else; she has to get to the cake — that mad, beautiful, perfect cake — before it hits the floor.

Dashing right past the bloke, her arms outstretched, she catches the support strut as it’s about to give out completely.

He whirls around, mouth open in astonishment. Her hands are busy holding the cake, and her bangs have fallen down into her face, so she blows them ineffectually upward with a puff of air. She’s still flushed from exertion and excitement, and this is certainly the most interesting thing that’s happened in Rose’s short retail career.

“Blimey!” he says, coming over to re-plant the support struts while she holds everything still. When he’s done, and the Eye is rotating once more, he impulsively sweeps Rose into his arms, squeezing firmly. He’s even lankier than he looks, but he’s strong, and warm, and smells like cinnamon and soap. Her heels come up off the floor as she leans into him, just before he sets her back down and steps away.

“You’d be dead without me.” She grins at him cheekily, hardly resisting the urge to shove her hands into her pockets, to mimic his posture. He’s a bit breathless.

“Yeah, I would,” he replies, grinning back. “I’m the Doctor, by the way”

“I’m Rose Tyler.” Then it registers, exactly what he’d said. “Hold on a minute, you’ve got a doctorate in cake-baking?”

He lifts one eyebrow, puckering his mouth. “Something like that.” Pausing, he gives her an appraising look. “Do you like chips, Rose Tyler?”

“Maybe. Why?” she retorts, and there’s a fluttering inside her chest because she’s certain he’s going to ask what she’s doing after her shift, and she’s equally as certain of her answer. The way he’s looking at her, the fascination in his gaze; the way Rose’s hands are ice cold, and her face is burning hot, and she’s still thinking about his ribs stretched against hers when they hugged … there’s a fantastic inevitability to everything, really.

“There’s this chippy ‘round the corner, it’s not far –”

“I’ve got a long day ahead,” Rose interrupts, nodding toward the escalators that have just started moving, and the distant sound of customers entering the store.

“Ah.” The Doctor looks crestfallen, but he’s trying to disguise it, to shrug it off.

“Although you’ll be stopping around again to make sure she’s sturdy?” Rose nods at the Eye, rotating away beside them.

The Doctor’s face brightens. “’Course, ‘course I will! Don’t want her toppling over.”

“Then maybe I’ll see you around, Doctor.” Heart hammering away, Rose slips behind the bakery counter and doesn’t look at him again. 

A few weeks later – after two dates at the chippy, a mad adventure in the linens department with a batty saleswoman named Cassandra , and the Doctor landing a permanent contract as Henrik’s exclusive novelty cake-supplier – Rose is standing in the kitchen of the Doctor’s flat, next to that big, battered old oven.

The Doctor’s teaching her to make buttercream, and Rose makes a mess with the mixer, icing flying off the still-spinning paddles and splattering everywhere. Shrieking with laughter, she tries to wipe it off her cheek and only smears more with her frosting-covered fingers. The Doctor is laughing too, pink icing dotting his spiked hair. His arms dart around her, reaching out to switch off the mixer, but he doesn’t draw away again when he’s done. He’s pressed against her back, and his laughter turns to a low chuckle as he spins her around, pinning her hips to the edge of the counter with his own.

“Rose Tyler.” Reaching up, he swipes a dab of icing from her temple, just beside her hair. “You’re all pink and yellow.”

Brown eyes warm and focused on her mouth, he leans forward and captures her bottom lip between his own. His tongue swipes across, slow and soft, and he draws back, smiling a little and licking his own lips thoughtfully.

As far as first kisses go, it’s spectacular and simple and tastes like everything Rose has ever wanted.

“Mmm, needs more milk,” he says.

“I should have a try,” she replies, staring at his mouth in return, at the dab of pink icing on his chin. There’s icing  _everywhere,_ actually – his neck, his jaw, his mouth and cheeks. Rose decides that she’s going to clean it off of him inch by slow inch. “Y’know, if I’m going to get a well-rounded education in baking.”

Dipping her head down, she sucks the Doctor’s index finger into her mouth, the one he’d used to wipe icing off her temple. Sliding her tongue across the pad, she lets it go with a pop. He stares at her with wide eyes and a smile, on the verge of saying something else, but Rose doesn’t give him a chance.

Coming up onto her toes, her lips crash into his, and her icing-covered fingers slide around the back of his head. 


End file.
